


Unspooling

by CertifiedPissWizard



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/M, GUESS WHAT, its kind of horny but only like heavily implied nothing graphic, its poetic, its tender, semi-graphic cuddling at the end send tweet, spoiler alert it is, theyre both monsters feeling what might be love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:08:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23936596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CertifiedPissWizard/pseuds/CertifiedPissWizard
Summary: "Helen." Jon has a body again, is a body again, is curling into her impossible shapes. One of her hands is in his hair, and he feels- he feels soft. He feels like moldable clay. He feels. He must still be out of it because the only real thing is Helen and she's impossible. That's her nature.
Relationships: Helen/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 2
Kudos: 52





	Unspooling

Jon feels like he's falling apart, scattering into- into something. He isn't sure how to finish the metaphor, isn't sure of anything other than the fact that he doesn't want Helen to stop doing whatever she's doing with her hands- knifetips dancing over every inch of him. She's saying something and and and her teeth are sharp and teasing at his bottom lip and he can't hear anything over the spirals and colors and fractals and shifting. She laughs, and touches him more, with more hands than she had before- but she can't be touching him because Jon doesn't have a body. He's just a consciousness holding onto her as tightly as possible, wrapping around all of her even though that isn't possible none of this is possible. There's laughter and soft keening sounds and whining and she kisses him again. If Jon was, if Jon had a body, he'd try and unravel her, make her feel this, but-

"Oh Archivist." She sounds so fond, and Jon can't respond, could never respond, not with her touching him like this. "You look so lovely like this, impossible." There's flares of pins and needles and pain and pleasure and- "Look at you- perfect." She laughs. If Jon had a body he'd be kissing her right now. He doesn't, but he does his best anyways, pressing in all over, fluttersoft touches that make her make sounds. "So affectionate, too." She lets out a gasp, asks him to do that again, and who is Jon to deny her this? "Archivist." The world rumbles around him, soft, and when he blinks he sees impossible shades of yellow. He doesn't know how long he's been falling apart, has fallen apart, will fall apart in her arms, her dozens of arms. "Archivist." He presses in as though he could merge the two of them. "Archivist." She sighs when he does something so he does it again, and then she shudders, unravels, and keeps unspooling into infinity. "Archivist," dozens of voices murmur at once, and the world presses in, and it's Jon's turn to unravel, eyes upon eyes looking in on itself- a mirror tunnel-

"Helen." Jon has a body again, is a body again, is curling into her impossible shapes. One of her hands is in his hair, and he feels- he feels soft. He feels like moldable clay. He feels. He must still be out of it because the only real thing is Helen and she's impossible. That's her nature. 

"Jon." She sounds smug, but Jon can't even imagine being annoyed at her for the smugness when he's only just real again, when he can count on one hand the number of times she's called him Jon. "You should visit my corridors more often." Still smug, still fond. She presses a kiss to the top of his head. Jon will never admit it, of course, but she's right. Not just because of this, or the way she doesn't look at him like he's horrible if he feeds, or the way she laughs, or the way that they're something that there aren't words for because with her involved of course there couldn't be words. It's nice. Being around someone who understands. "I do like you, Archivist. You're terribly sweet sometimes."

"I like you too, Helen. Even though you are a bastard sometimes." The words don't come out harsh, but he's still curling in around her as though he could meld them by sheer force of will. He feels tired, he thinks. He lets himself drift, curled into a monster who slides her hand up and down his back and kissed his head, and he knows she'll still be there when he wakes up. She may be inconstant by nature, but she would never leave him like this. His last thought as he slips into sleep is that he might just love her.

"I love you too, Archivist."


End file.
